


lonely luxury

by Sorkari



Category: RWBY
Genre: Emotional Constipation, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorkari/pseuds/Sorkari
Summary: Qrow tries not to take it personally.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 117





	lonely luxury

**Author's Note:**

> angst? and _emotions?_ in my smut ? it's more likely than you think
> 
> title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4UKtfiX_wM)

Qrow tries not to take it personally.

He really tries.

(It’s not enough.)

The night starts the same. His legs are hooked over Clover’s waist, pulling them closer together, his arms looped loosely around Clover’s neck. Their breaths muddle together, hot and wet and messy, kisses as slow and languid as the roll of Clover’s hips against his. A deliberate press inwards has him gasping into the kiss, clenching hard, thighs trembling.

Clover fists the sheets on either side of Qrow’s head. He breaks from the kiss, falters just a bit, grinds slow against Qrow like he’s mesmerized by the feeling. His lips quirk up into a lazy, stupidly breathtaking grin, and Qrow kisses him, if only to stop his heart from pounding against his ribcage.

He feels Clover’s smile against his lips. Clover starts thrusting again, the press of his hips against Qrow’s absolutely mind numbing, the soft groan that melts between them sending sparks skittering up Qrow’s spine. Still languid, still perfect, still strikingly tender in a way that Qrow doesn’t recognize.

Clover gets like this, sometimes.

Soft, like he cares. Luxurious, like he’s savoring every second of it. Presses close like he can’t let go, thrusts slow and deep like he’s trying to convey what words can’t. It drags on long enough to make Qrow embarrassingly needy, and eventually he’s bucking his hips, kicking at Clover’s back, a whine low in his throat.

He’s panting when they break apart. Clover kisses his cheek, then his jaw, voice lilted and teasing when he murmurs against the shell of Qrow’s ear, “Patience is a virtue, handsome.”

Qrow lets out a shaky sigh.

It’s too much.

(It’s not enough.)

“You’re killing me, here,” Qrow grumbles.

“You’re being dramatic,” Clover laughs. He shifts to ease an arm under Qrow. “But I like that.”

An undignified noise leaves Qrow’s lips as he’s lifted upwards. He clings to Clover, supported by the arm around his lower back, the new angle pressing Clover deeper than before. Clover sits upright, his other hand white-knuckled against the bed frame, his face shoved into Qrow’s throat.

Clover picks up a new pace entirely - thrusts short and unforgiving, fucking up into Qrow with all the pent up energy from the day that led them back into his bed. He’s rough in a way he knows Qrow likes, but his hold around Qrow’s waist is gentle, and the kiss he plants against Qrow’s neck is disgustingly sweet. 

Qrow clings tighter.

There’s sweat that beads at Clover’s hairline, his bangs sticking to his forehead, but his grip never falters. His thighs don’t quake from the exertion, his thrusts don’t slow. Something about being handled so easily, as if he barely weighed a thing, has Qrow’s head spinning.

Clover angles his hips just right, presses hard against the right place. Qrow doesn’t stifle his moan in time. “That’s it.” Clover’s voice is delightfully gravelly when he encourages, “That’s it, gorgeous. Let me hear you.”

Qrow tries not to.

(But it’s not enough.)

Qrow’s gasping for the breath he can’t catch, too sensitive to bother stifling his whimpers, too desperate to stop himself from digging his nails into Clover’s back. Clover moans, the sound harsh and positively _wrecked_ , and then he’s shifting again, curling into Qrow just a bit, fucking into him like it’s the last thing he’ll do.

And Qrow can only dig his nails in harder, marking him like it’s the only thing he has left.

Clover leaves marks of his own, of course. He’s surprisingly possessive, but Qrow likes that. He likes the indents that Clover’s nails leave on his hips, the bite marks that sting against the crook of his neck, the bruises that stretch beautifully across the smooth column of his throat. He likes how they look, likes how they ache.

He shivers at the new bruise that’s sucked onto his neck. It’ll be difficult to hide later, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He just wants more. More, until he can’t it. More, until Clover can’t keep up. More, and _more_ , and then some, until he leaves his bedroom late into the morning with Clover at his side. Until he’s finally given more than just the ghost of Clover to pine for when the sun comes up.

He wants everything. _Everything._ Everything, and then more, even if he knows damn well what would come. He knows what Clover can and can’t give.

He buries his fingers into Clover’s hair and tugs. Clover lets out a shaky little noise. He sounds so ruined, so debauched, and Qrow _preens_. This was a side no one ever saw; no one but Qrow, of course, and something about the exclusivity of that made Qrow’s heart clench. 

He arches his back when he comes, and Clover just fucks him through it, harsh and erratic as he chases his own release. Qrow trembles at the overstimulation, but doesn’t want it to stop. He never does. It sears through him, white-hot and merciless, and he’s too fucked-out to stop the obscene mewl that tears its way out of his throat.

Clover holds him close when he comes, thrusts shallow as he rides out the high. He’s breathing lazy sentiments against Qrow’s skin, and they sound so, so genuine. Tears prick at the corners of Qrow’s eyes. It’s too much.

(It’s never enough.)

Qrow doesn’t let go when he’s eased back onto the mattress. He doesn’t let go when Clover slips out of him. He doesn’t let go, and for a short while, he fools himself into thinking that he could keep Clover there. It’s frantic, it’s irrational, and still, he doesn’t let go.

And Clover doesn’t push. Doesn’t ease away from him, doesn’t urge him to let go like he would anything else. He’s kissing at Qrow’s neck, his collarbones, his jawline, his cheeks, and not once does he ever push Qrow away. It took a while before Qrow learned that Clover was a sucker for cuddles. He should consider himself lucky, really.

Qrow was never really one to cuddle after sex, but this is different. Everything is different when it’s with Clover.

Clover whispers something again. Qrow knows what it is, and something seizes in his chest, and his head feels numb, and he wishes he could say it back. Clover kisses the top of his head, and he wishes desperately his heart would stop aching.

“Love you,” he says. Slow, lazy, content. “I really do.”

Qrow swallows thickly.

Say it. Say it. _Say it._

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

Clover’s mouth twitches. His brow furrows. It’s only a second, but it’s enough.

(Gods, it’s never enough.)

Despite the exhaustion that tugs at his eyelids, Qrow stays awake. He watches as the moonlight that stretches out across the floorboards fades and eventually dies out, the dark abyss of the night eventually mellowing into something of a midnight blue. He traces the outlines of the furniture in the room, eyes always trailing back to the digital clock on the nightstand.

He knows what’s coming. He always knows.

Clover’s hand stops tracing patterns along his skin. It raises to his ear, and then he’s speaking, saying something that Qrow can’t find it in himself to listen to.

Qrow tries not to take it personally.

He really, really tries.

(But it’s never, ever enough.)

Soon, Clover’s leaving the bed with his finger pressed to his ear, the other hand fixing his mussed hair. He’s moving swiftly from one end of the bedroom to the other, speaking flawlessly, not even breathless when he finally makes it out the door. There’s no goodbye, no kiss, not even a single glance in Qrow’s direction.

It usually goes this way, and Qrows tries. He _tries_. He knows how much Clover’s job means to him, knows how much hard work Clover has put into it. He tries, and he fails the moment he’s pulling the blanket back up over his shoulders. He fails once he’s drowning in the empty space left over. He fails as he runs a hand along the indent where Clover was, still warm by the time Clover pulls himself together and leaves.

Somehow, waking up alone was preferable. Somehow, he wishes Clover wouldn’t stay the night, because watching Clover leave without a second glance was worse than waking up with an empty space next to him. Qrow rolls onto his stomach and winces. He can still feel Clover’s hands on his thighs, lips against his neck, his come leaking out of him. He buries his face into his pillow, his hands shaking where they clawed into it, and breathes in deep.

It smells like Clover, but it isn’t enough.

(Why isn’t he enough?)

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Sorkari_) ✨


End file.
